


Here At The Mayflower

by Kittenmommy



Series: If You Only Knew What I'm Going Through... [2]
Category: Barry Manilow - Fandom, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: A parade of real people, Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hilarity Ensues, Humor, Kidnapping, Kissing, Mild Sexual Content, Noodle Incidents, Real people, Silly outfits, So many real people, Swearing, That's not kosher, The Doctor is easily distracted, Timey-Wimey, pretending to be a couple, so this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-25 20:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2634599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenmommy/pseuds/Kittenmommy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Amy and Barry are kidnapped, it's the Doctor to the rescue!</p><p>Well, once he <i>finds</i> them, that is...</p><p>In the meantime, their captor is crazy and the food is bizarre.  But at least pretending to be married breaks up the monotony!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here At The Mayflower

**Author's Note:**

> _Doctor Who_ belongs to the BBC.
> 
> "[Copacabana](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2dlXZo348w)" belongs to Barry Manilow.
> 
> All real people belong to themselves.
> 
> And I'm not making any money from this!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Special thanks to the folks at alt.fan.barry-manilow for your helpful input! I couldn't have done it without you! :D
> 
> * * *
> 
> Takes place immediately after the events of my fic _And The Whole World Sang_. Because Amy is right: that really _wasn't_ a very nice thing to do!
> 
>  **EDIT:** Also, this was written before... _stuff_ , when Barry still presented himself as a straight man. And so, I wrote him that way. 
> 
> _Shrug_
> 
> Yeah, whatever. This is my fictional version of Barry Manilow that happened in an Alternate Universe. May the fangirls rejoice! :D 
> 
> (And still please don't sue me, thanks!)

Barry Manilow goes into his dressing room and shuts the door behind him.

He collapses into a chair and sits staring off into space.

He _still_ can’t believe it: The Girl From Central Park!  She was there, _right there_ , _right in front of him_ in the very front row!

And what did he do?  Why, he fumbled around like an idiot, of course.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ he silently berates himself.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Go away,” he snaps irritably.

“Um… Mister Manilow?  Can I come in?  _Please_?”

It’s a female voice, Scottish-accented.

His head jerks up, his eyes widening. No… it _can’t_ be.

Can it?

“What?” he asks warily.

“I… er, I just wanted to apologize.”

Definitely a Scottish accent!

He stands and hurries to the door.

He almost can’t believe it when he opens the door to find The Girl From Central Park standing there, looking up at him rather sheepishly.

“What we did… the Doctor and I,” she’s saying. “Well, it really wasn’t very nice. And I’m sorry.”

He simply gazes down at her for a moment.

“Who _are_ you?” he finally asks.

She smiles that brilliant smile that he remembers so vividly, even all these years later.

He’s absolutely dazzled.  _Again_.

“That’s a _very_ long story,” she says, and he can hear laughter in her voice. Her green eyes sparkle with mischief.

He can’t help but be reminded of the last time they’d met.  But he’s not just some awkward, ugly nobody _now_ , though. Now, he’s an _international superstar_!

He grins and pulls out all of his very suave-est moves.

“I got time,” he says, gesturing her inside. He goes to a table stocked with bottles and glasses and a magnum of champagne on ice in a bucket. “Champagne?” he offers her suavely.

“That would be _lovely_ ,” she agrees, settling into the chair that he’d recently vacated and smiling up at him.

He picks up the champagne and smiles at her with every last ounce of suave that he has at his disposal.  He is the King of Suave… he’s so suave _now_ that he’s practically _made of_ suave!

Suavely, he removes the foil wrapper on the champagne bottle.  He twists the little metal cage off the top of the cork like the debonair man of the world that he is.

He dials the suave up to eleven and begins to ease out the cork.

It explodes out of the bottle like the Space Shuttle leaving Cape Canaveral, narrowly missing nailing him right in the nose.

Champagne volcanoes out of the bottle and Niagras everywhere, soaking the front of his pants.

His _white_ pants.

So now he not only looks like a clumsy fool, but also like he’s just peed himself.

_Dammit!_

Well, at least this situation can’t _possibly_ get any worse.

There’s a tap at the door.

“What?” he demands, irritated, turning.

He has time to see the two figures all in black leather and black helmets raise shiny objects in their hands and then there’s light and noise and then he’s falling and then everything is black.

* * *

Amy wakes.

She’s lying on a cold, hard surface.

Someone is sprawled half on top of her. She opens her eyes and sees blond hair.

She nudges a shoulder and is rewarded with a groan.

“What happened?” he asks without moving.

“I don’t know.”

He raises himself on his elbows and looks down at her.

“Well,” he finally says.  He grins saucily, eyebrows going up.  “Not that this isn’t a dream come true…”

“Right,” she agrees, and laughs as they disentangle themselves.

She sits up. 

They’re in a white room.  The floors, the ceiling, the walls: _everything_ is white.

“What _is_ this place?” she wonders.

“You got me,” he says, and climbs to his feet. He holds out a hand, and she lets him help her up. 

“You know, I don’t think we’ve ever properly met,” she says.  “Amelia Pond.”

“Barry Manilow.”

She grins.  “Yeah, I know.”

“Did you see those guys with those things?” he asks, releasing her hand.

She frowns. “What guys with what things?”

She begins to walk around the room, inspecting the walls for possible escape routes.

“In my dressing room, right before _this_.”  He waves a hand in a gesture that takes in their surroundings.

“No, sorry.  Last thing I remember was sitting in that chair, waiting for my champagne.”

Suddenly, a door slides open and a small, portly man in a grey business suit appears.

“Oh good, there you are,” he says amiably. Amy notes that he has an American accent, and wonders hopefully if they’re still on Earth.  “So, how was your trip?”

Amy and Barry exchange glances.

“Our trip?” Barry finally says dubiously.

“I hope the slabs didn’t shake you up too much,” the man continues incomprehensibly.

“Slabs?” Amy asks.

“Slabs,” the man repeats.  “[Standard slave drones](http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/Slab).”

“Those guys with those things!” Barry suddenly realizes triumphantly.

The man eyes him up and down, taking in his generally disheveled appearance and – of course! – his wet pants.

“Right,” he finally agrees, his tone suggesting that Barry is the stupidest person he’s ever had the misfortune to encounter. “OK then.  Let me show you around.”

He turns to leave, motioning them to follow.

Exchanging another glance, they do.

* * *

The Doctor stands at the TARDIS control console, staring down at it and wringing his hands.

“Now, where could they have been taken?” he wonders with a sigh.

He fiddles with a switch, and sighs again.

“Oh Amy, why’d you have to wander off?” He shakes his head and moves a dial. “I’ve told you _how many times_?  _Don’t wander off_!”

He throws a lever, and the Time Rotor begins to move.

“Why do they _always_ wander off…?”

* * *

The little grey man is ushering them forward.

“So, this is the club,” he’s saying. It’s empty and all the lights are on, but it’s clearly a nightclub.

Amy glances around and sees slabs all around the perimeter, silver weapons in hand, and she decides that it’s better to go along quietly for the moment.  She gently nudges Barry with one elbow, and when she has his attention she glances meaningfully at the slabs. 

He nods slightly.

There’s a huge bar along one side. A multitude of small, intimate tables surround a round dais where a grand piano sits.

“Welcome to Club Mayflower,” the man says, and bows. “Herman Mayflower, Proprietor.”

“Here at the Mayflower,” Barry mutters under his breath.

“What?” Amy asks, and he shakes his head.

“As you can see,” Mayflower is saying, “Our patrons come here for one thing.”  He gestures at the piano, and everything falls into place in Amy’s head.

Mayflower takes Barry by the elbow and guides him up the steps to the piano. 

“I had Billy Joel here for six months,” he’s saying proudly, and then frowns.  “Not sure how he managed to escape.  Must’ve been smarter than he looks.” He eyes Barry appraisingly.  “I’m guessing that won’t be a problem here.”

Barry opens his mouth, but before he can speak Mayflower guides him over to the piano.  “Sit, sit! Try it out!”

Barry folds his arms across his chest and glares down at the little grey man.

“ _No._ ”

“Oooh, spirited!” Mayflower exclaims gleefully, clapping his hands with seeming delight.

“ _Barry_ …” Amy begins warningly.  Has he seriously forgotten about the slabs and their weapons?  _He is not cut out for this_ , she decides.

“And _this_ one!” Mayflower suddenly exclaims, turning his attention to Amy.

He dashes down the stairs and bounds over to her. He lifts a lock of long red hair off her shoulder and brings it to his nose, inhaling deeply, ignoring her shudder. “Ah, _yessssss_. She’ll fetch an _enormous_ price!”

“Price?” Amy asks suspiciously, really not liking the sound of _this_.

Mayflower smiles up at her. 

“Price,” He repeats. 

He lets go of her hair and puts a hand on the small of her back, drawing her close. 

His eyes are level with her chest, and Amy now has a first-hand reference for the phrase _feasting his eyes_.  “We sometimes have this auction, you see…” He moves his hand lower and rests it on her rear. “Winner take _all_ ,” he smirks, and gives her a healthy squeeze that makes her yelp.

“Hey, that’s _my wife_!” Barry suddenly lies quite vehemently, and Mayflower and Amy both turn to stare up at him incredulously.  “Get your _fucking_ hands off her!” he continues in a very convincing outraged tone.  And then for emphasis, he adds, “You little shit!”

For a moment, Mayflower looks ready to argue.

But then he shrugs, releasing Amy and shoving her hard enough that she staggers forward toward her “husband”.

“She’s _all yours_ ,” he says magnanimously.  And then he grins up at Barry; a cold, emotionless shark’s grin.  He gestures at the piano.  “Now, _play_.”

* * *

The Doctor is at a diner, having coffee with a woman he’s only just met.

Business as usual for him.  _Unusually_ , though, there are no aliens trying to invade or monsters chasing them.

For once.

“She just disappeared,” the Doctor is saying.  He takes a sip of coffee.  “She wandered off – I _told_ her not to wander off! – and now she’s just gone.”

The woman sitting across from him nods.

“I suppose you’ve checked the places she usually frequents,” she says, sipping her coffee.

“That… wouldn’t really do much good.  Not in this case.”

“Someone – I can’t remember who – once said that no one is ever _truly_ gone. Not as long as there’s someone who remembers them.”

He nods.

“Yes, you’re right. Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely.  If something can be remembered, it _can_ come back.”

“But not always,” she says.

He gives her a sad smile.

“No. Not _always_.”

He finishes his coffee and stands.

“Doctor, what did you say your friend’s name is?”

“I didn’t. But it’s Amelia.”

“What a coincidence.” She smiles up at him. “That’s my name, too.”

His smile somehow grows even sadder.

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

* * *

Amy and Barry stand together at the window, gazing glumly at the starry expanse outside. 

There’s a huge glittery space cruise ship floatinig outside.  It’s impossible to determine how big it is or how far away it is, because there’s just no way to judge scale or distance.

Amy is thinking about how Barry had lied to Mayflower to save her: _He’s cleverer than he looks, and he can think on his feet,_ she realizes.  _Good._

“Well, I guess we’re not on Earth,” she finally says.

“Yeah, I guess not,” he agrees. “You seem to be taking this pretty well.”

She shrugs.  “Just used to it, I guess.”

“Yeah, that’s what I don’t get. How the _fuck_ are you ‘just used to’ stuff like _this_?” He gestures at the cruise ship outside for emphasis.

They watch as a small silver shuttle detaches from the cruise ship and makes its way toward wherever it is that they are.

With a sigh, she moves away from the window and goes to sit on the edge of “their” bed.

Mayflower has given them small but well-appointed quarters.  She had quickly discovered that they’re quite effectively locked in, but otherwise they’re pretty comfortable.

There’s a small living space, an even smaller kitchen (but no food or kitchenware of any kind), and the slightly bigger bedroom with an en-suite bathroom. 

All of the furniture in the place is made of hard, uncomfortable plastic.

Well, except for the bed.

But as prisons go, Amy knows from experience that it’s not a bad one.  She and the Doctor had been held captive in worse, after all.

He comes over and sits down on the bed with her.

They’re silent for a moment, and then: “So, right before all this, you were about to explain a few things.”

“Now isn’t really the time for all that, _my darling husband_ ,” she says pointedly.

He plunges on, oblivious.

“Why not?  Come on, I want some answers here!”

 _He is_ really _not cut out for this!_ Amy thinks.

She has to shut him up, _now_.

“You were about to tell me who you really – ”

She does the first thing that occurs to her: she grabs him and kisses him.

Very, _very_ thoroughly.

 _Well, he’s meant to be my husband_ , she thinks.  _And at least he’s stopped talking!_

When she finally releases him, he stares at her wide-eyed, breathing heavily.

“What – ”

“Shhh!” she says, pressing a finger to his lips. She moves her hand, caressing his cheek. “We’re finally alone, aren’t we?” she murmurs seductively.

“Yeah…?”  Confusion and uncertainty are written all over his face.

She suddenly blinks hard.  “Oh!  I’ve got something in my eye,” she says in watery voice.

His confusion grows.

“In your eye?”  He leans closer.  “Let me see…”

She locks eyes with him and wipes at the corner of one eye with her finger. 

Then she glances up at the corner of the room briefly but meaningfully.

 _Please let him be as clever as he seems…_ she thinks wildly.

She sees understanding fill his eyes.

He nods slightly, then raises a hand to brush gently through her hair.  One finger lingers over her ear, and he gives her a meaningful look, eyebrows going up in a silent question.

She nods almost imperceptibly.

“OK,” he whispers.

There are possibly cameras and listening devices _everywhere_.

And at least now he realizes it too.

She gives him that brilliant smile again, and oh dammit, he’s _so lost_.

There’s a short knock at the main door of the apartment, and then they hear the door being opened. 

They hear people moving in the other rooms of the apartment, and then a cheerful male voice calls, “Feeding time!”

They exchange a glance.

Food!  _Finally!_   Neither of them is sure how long they’ve gone without food, but it’s been long enough that they’re both eager for whatever is on offer.

They rise and hurry to the kitchen area. As they go, they pass several human-looking women dressed in French maids’ uniforms.  The women don’t even give Amy or Barry a second glance as they leave the apartment, shutting the door behind them.

When they reach the kitchen, Mayflower is there.

There’s an enormous platter covered with an equally enormous silver cloche. 

There’s an extremely vile aroma in the air.

Mayflower smirks up at them, then grabs the handle of the cloche and lifts it with a flourish.  “ _Bon appetite_!” he exclaims gleefully.

Amy and Barry stare down at the gigantic whole roasted space slug. 

It’s easily the size of the biggest Thanksgiving turkey that Barry’s ever seen (possibly even _bigger_ ), and it’s seething with slimy, foul-smelling juices.

Mayflower is suddenly holding a knife, and he slices the slug’s side open.  Horrible yellow… _stuff_ oozes out.

The indescribably vile smell intensifies.

Amy swallows hard.

She glances over at Barry and sees that he’s looking a bit green.

“Well, dig in!” Mayflower is urging enthusiastically, using the yellow-slimed knife to gesture at the places that have been set for them at the table.  “There’s plenty here for both of you!”

“That’s… that’s…” Amy is utterly at a loss for words. Her mouth is watering, and she thinks she might throw up.

“That’s not kosher!” Barry suddenly blurts out, and Amy glances up at him.

She begins to say something, and then realization dawns: _Oh, you_ clever _man…_

“That’s right, it’s not!” she says vehemently.  “That is _absolutely_ not kosher! We can’t eat that because _we_ eat _kosher_!”

“Keep kosher,” Barry corrects _sotto voce_.  “ _Keep_ kosher.”

“ _Keep_ kosher!” she immediately agrees, and then adds, “Rosh Hashanah! Hava Nagila!  Shalom!” for good measure.

Barry makes this really weird sort of choking sound, but she doesn’t dare look at him.

Mayflower frowns, considering.

“All right,” he finally agrees. “It’s a religious issue. Suitable food will be provided,” he says, and walks out without another word.

* * *

It’s night in Brooklyn.

The Doctor sits on the edge of the roof of an apartment building in Bensonhurst, dangling his feet over the edge. The TARDIS stands behind him in the darkness.

A little boy in pajamas sits next to him, looking up at him with wide brown eyes and listening in wonder.

“There are so many stars, you can’t even _imagine_ ,” he’s telling the boy.

“And they’re still there now?”

“Of course they are!  But we can’t see them, because the lights from the city drown them out.  Think about… the subway. When you’re on the subway, everyone’s talking.  All the time, talking. So it’s hard to hear your mum when she speaks to you, isn’t it?”

The little boy frowns.

“OK, OK, that’s a rubbish comparison. Think about – ”

“No,” the little boy exclaims. “No, it makes sense!”

The Doctor grins.

“There really are _lots_ of stars, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

The Doctor reaches out and ruffles the child’s black hair.

“Carl,” he says, “there are billions and billions of them.”

* * *

Amy reaches for the knife and spreads more cream cheese on her bagel.

They’re sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying a “meal” that’s more like breakfast.

But at least it’s edible.

Mayflower had taken the space slug away with him.

Shortly after, a girl in a French maid’s uniform had shown up with a box full of food: Bagels, cream cheese, and a murky jar full of some kind of _things_ that Barry had identified as gefilte fish.  To Amy, it had appeared about as appetizing as the space slug, and she noticed that he hadn’t exactly seemed eager to open it up either.

“You think we should just go along with them?” he asks, taking a bite of his bagel.

She nods.  “For now, yes.  Things could be so much worse…”

“Yeah, you know, I wasn’t gonna let that guy Mayflower auction you off.  Or even… maybe he might’ve decided to keep you for himself… he seems like he might be some kind of fucking maniac.”  He shrugs. “I’m not a maniac.”

“Well, I’d never have married you if you were, would I?” she teases, and he laughs.

* * *

The Doctor is sitting at a table. It’s bolted to the floor, and both of his hands are handcuffed to it.

They’ve taken his tweed jacket, his bow tie, his suspenders, his shoes, his sonic screwdriver, and everything in his pockets.

They’re not taking any chances with him; _they know better_.

Along one wall is a mirror that he knows is more than a mirror.

He looks up when the door opens.

A woman in widow’s weeds enters, flanked by two men in black suits.  The men are wearing sunglasses even though they’re inside, and they’re visibly armed.

 _Why are Americans all so trigger-happy?_ the Doctor suddenly wonders.

“Doctor, you’re going to _fix this_ ,” the woman says without preamble. 

He looks up at her, his blue-green eyes filled with sympathy.  “I can’t. I wish I could, but – ”

“You’ve helped us before.”

“Yes, but that was _different_ ,” he tells her, and sighs.  “Look, this is a [fixed point](http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/Fixed_point_in_time).  It happened. It _always_ _will_ happen. _It has to happen!_ ”

“I don’t believe you.” Her voice is like steel wrapped in velvet.

He sighs again, and when he speaks, his voice is sad.

“I’m sorry.  I really, truly am.  But I can’t change what happened on Friday.  I wish I could, but… _I can’t_.”

One of the men in the black suits speaks.

“There’s precedent for this, Ma’am,” he tells her apologetically.  She turns to look at him.  “He talked about fixed points before… the last time.  I heard what he told the President… trying to change this would be a _very_ bad idea.  And if the President were here, he’d tell you the same thing.”

She nods once, and then turns her attention back to the Doctor.

“What would happen?”

“The end of the world.  _Literally_.” He meets her eye. “Your husband would _never_ have wanted _that_.”

She’s quiet, considering. 

She knows who he is, and more importantly she knows _what_ he is: the last Time Lord of Gallifrey, a man from a race of people who were sworn to uphold and protect the Laws of Time.  And she knows exactly what he’s capable of, too: He’s the man who used [The Moment](http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/The_Moment) to wipe out his home planet and every single one of his own people in the Last Great Time War.

“No, he wouldn’t,” she finally whispers, sounding defeated.  Her shoulders slump. “Let him go,” she says, and turns to leave.

“I truly _am_ sorry,” he repeats.  “Your husband was a great man, Missus Kennedy.”

* * *

Amy and Barry have finished their bagel feast.

She’s staring down at her empty plate, lost in thought. _Where_ the hell _is the Doctor?_ she wonders for the billionth time.

“So, howdaya think he escaped from here?” he asks.

She shakes her head.  “Sorry, I was miles away.  Who?”

“Billy Joel.”  He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “He can’t be smarter than _us_ , right?”

“Do you know him?” she asks.

“Yeah, sort of.”  He shakes out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. “I met him a couple times,” he says around the cigarette.

“And is he very clever?”

He shrugs and brings the lighter to the cigarette. “He’s a great musician. Love his stuff.”

“OK, but that’s not really what I was asking.”

He takes a drag on the cigarette and exhales smoke. “He – ”

A claxon begins blaring.

“What the hell!” Amy exclaims, jumping to her feet.

There’s a mechanical noise, and they look up to see a small panel opening directly over Barry’s head.

A nozzle pokes out and unleashes a downpour on him. He’s yelling something, but because of the claxon Amy can only make out a few choice words: “Holy shit! What the… fucking… what… dammit… you… fuck!”.   And so forth.

After a moment, the claxon and the deluge simultaneously stop.  The nozzle withdraws back into the ceiling and the little panel slides shut.

Barry looks like an astonished drowned rat.

His hair and his clothes are plastered to him, and dripping.  He’s still holding the limp cigarette in one hand and the lighter in the other.

They hear the door to the apartment slide open, and soon Mayflower walks in.

“You’re not allowed to smoke in here,” he tells Barry sternly.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I got that.  Thanks.” Water drips off the end of his nose.

“Fun time’s over,” Mayflower informs them. “Time to get to work, you two. Costumes are in boxes on your bed.”

And with that, he walks out.

“Costumes?” Amy wonders.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Barry says.

“Yeah,” she agrees nodding.  “Neither do I.”

* * *

The TARDIS stands in a field of wildflowers.

The Doctor is lying on his back, staring up at the clear blue Austrian sky.

“I just don’t know what to do,” the young woman in the postulant’s habit is saying. 

She’s sitting near the Doctor, but not looking at him. Her attention is focused on her lap, where she’s pulling at the cloth of her habit nervously.

“You’re running,” the Doctor says sagely. “I should know. I’ve been running all my life.  The question is, what are _you_ running _from_?”

Instead of answering, she turns to look at him. “What are _you_ running from, Doctor?”

He’s silent for a long time.

“Love,” he finally says.  “Or… I don’t know.  Sometimes, it all seems like such a jumbled up mess.”

She nods.  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”  Her hands twist in her lap.  “Do you ever want to go home?”

“Can’t,” he says shortly.  “My home is gone… my people are all gone now.”

“Mine as well.  But now… now I could have a home.  And a family.”

He sits up.

“Well, then.  Maybe it’s time for _you_ to stop running.”  He catches her eye and holds it.  “Maria.”

* * *

Amy is sitting on the hard plastic sofa in the living area.  She looks up at the sound of the bedroom door opening.

Barry walks out, and Amy stares, wide-eyed.

And then she bursts out laughing.

She laughs.

And _laughs_.

_And laughs._

Her sides ache and the tears stream down her cheeks.

And _still_ she can’t stop laughing.

He folds his arms across his chest and glares down at her until she finally runs out of steam.

“Oh my God,” she gasps out, wiping her cheeks and trying to catch her breath.  “What in the name of _Hell_ are you supposed to _be_?”

He’s wearing [a sparkly, ruffled silver shirt that makes him look like some kind of demented flamenco dancer on acid](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHfWNkwqbGY/Ua5Bi6CQD5I/AAAAAAAAAZU/VB-ytsrV83s/s1600/copacabana-shirt-385x280.jpg).

And his trousers…

“Did those trousers come out of a paint can?” she asks. “Was there a brush to apply them with?”

His glare intensifies.

“There’s a box in there for you, too,” he notifies her grumpily.  He stalks across the room and drops into a hard plastic chair, still glaring.

She sighs.

“All right,” she agrees.  “Best get it over with, I guess.”

She rises and goes into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

She’s in there for a very long time.

“You ever coming out?” he yells, a smirk in his voice.

“No!”

“Aw, come on!  I wanna see!”

“Just shut up, OK?  Shut up!  I _hate_ you!”

“ _Me_? What’d _I_ do?”

“You _wrote the bloody song_ , didn’t you?”

She opens the door and walks out, wobbling only slightly on the stiletto heels.

His jaw drops.

“ _Still_ shutting up!” she reminds him.

Her name is Amy.

She is a showgirl.

With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to –

He tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

“ _Shut up!_ ” she says again, and stalks off toward the kitchen on those long, long legs.

He tries not to stare.

He fails.  _Miserably_.

* * *

The Doctor catches the band as they come off the stage.

“I’m the Doctor,” he says to one of the singers, taking him by the elbow and steering him toward the bar.  “And I was just wondering if you could help me. You see, I’m looking for a girl.”

The singer laughs.  “Aren’t we all, mate?”

“No, I’m looking for a _specific_ girl.  You were up on stage, so you’d have a better view of the crowd than I would.”

The singer shrugs and motions the bartender over.

“The girl,” the Doctor continues, “has long ginger hair, green eyes.  Quite pretty. About so tall.” He holds up a hand to demonstrate.

“Beer, please,” the singer says to the bartender, and then, “I don’t remember seeing her, Doctor.”

“Look, she’d be with this bloke,” the Doctor persists.  “Tall, skinny – _proper_ skinny! – and blond hair.”  He frowns. “Sort of looks a bit like a porcupine.  And…” he gestures at his face.

“Huge conk?” the singer asks as the bartender hands him his beer.

“That’s him!” the Doctor says excitedly.  “You’ve seen him?”

“No.”

“Damn,” the Doctor swears quietly.  “All right,” he says, getting up to leave.  At the last second, he turns back.  “Great band,” he says.

“Cheers.”

“Not so sure about the drummer, though,” he adds with a frown.

“Who, Pete?”

“Yeah, him.” The Doctor shrugs. “Well, see you around, John.”

* * *

Amy and Barry are slumped together on the plastic sofa in their living room, too tired to move.

They’ve just finished a three-hour shift in Club Mayflower, and though Barry was seated at the piano the entire time, he looks just as exhausted as she feels.

She steals a glance at him; his head is back and he looks like he’s about to fall asleep right there.  It suddenly occurs to her that when they’d first met back in 1967, they were about the same age.  But now, he’s got forty years on her.

 _No wonder he’s tired_ , she thinks as she pulls the yellow feathers out of her hair.

“Take a picture, it lasts longer,” he says without opening his eyes.

She bends down to unfasten the straps on her stiletto heels.

“What a night, eh?” she says, and brings one foot up to her lap to rub it.

“You said it, kid,” he agrees, sighing.

“I’d _love_ to know how Billy Joel managed to escape from here.”

“You and me both.  You know, I’m never getting off this sofa again.”

She stands. 

“Let’s have a shower,” she says suddenly.

He opens his eyes and looks up at her.

“Whattaya mean, have a shower?”

“You know, a shower.”  Her eyebrows go up meaningfully.  “ _Together_.”

He’s up off the sofa like he’s spring-loaded.

She’s heading toward the bedroom, and she looks back at him over her shoulder.

“Come on then, Husband Mine,” she says. She gives him that brilliant smile of hers, and then begins to sing: “While Barry tried to be a star, Amy always tended bar.  Across the crowed floor, they worked and worked some more…”

* * *

The Doctor sits on a barstool in an upscale bar in Cupertino. 

He’s scanning the crowd for any signs of Amy and her hapless companion, but so far he’s seen nothing.

Why did the TARDIS bring him _here_?

A man slides onto the barstool next to the Doctor and motions to the bartender.  “Scotch. Straight up.”  He glances over at the Doctor.  “Looking for someone?”

“Yeah, but I’m not having any luck.”

The man snorts.

“Today’s not exactly my lucky day, either.” The bartender puts his drink down in front of him and he takes a sip.  “Just got kicked out.”

“Wife?” the Doctor asks, sipping his drink.

“No.”

The Doctor sees a flash of long red hair across the room and for a moment… no.  It’s not her.

“They _never_ appreciated me,” the man is saying hotly.  “Well, they’ll be sorry.”

“I expect so,” the Doctor agrees. “Very, _very_ sorry.”

“Just wait,” he says, staring down at the amber depths of the drink in front of him.  “One day, they’ll _beg_ me to come back!”

“Of course they will.”  The Doctor stands.  “After all, what would Apple be without Steve Jobs?”

The man looks up at this, but the Doctor is already gone.

* * *

Amy and Barry stand in the bathroom.

She reaches into the shower and turns on the taps.

“Is this seriously gonna happen?” he blurts out, utterly amazed at his good fortune.

She walks up to him, smiling seductively.

“Of course,” she purrs, her nimble fingers working on the buttons of his demented-flamenco-dancer-on-acid shirt.

He doesn’t even hesitate. 

“OK!” he agrees, and pulls her closer so he can undo the zipper on the back of her dress.

She giggles and pushes his shirt off his shoulders. It drops to the floor, along with her yellow dress.

He stares.

She waves a hand around under the shower, checking the temperature.

“Come on,” she says, climbing in, still wearing her bra and panties.

He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his socks, and peels off his painted-on pants. 

Before he can get his underwear off, she says, “No, leave them on.”  She looks at him, her eyes heavy-lidded.  “I want to take them off you _myself_.”

He jumps into the shower with great alacrity and allows her to pull him under the stream of water.

He puts his arms around her and pulls her close, burying his face in her neck as the water cascades down over them.

Her lips are against his ear.

“OK, listen,” she whispers directly into his ear. “I’m pretty sure they can’t hear us now, not over the water.  And especially if we’re very quiet.”

“ _That’s_ why you brought us in here?”  He doesn’t even try to hide his disappointment.

“Yeah.  I need to explain a few things to you.”

“Like what?”

“Like _everything_ ,” she whispers.  “It might take a while, though.”

“Mmmm, I’m OK with that.”

“Yeah, I thought you might be.” He can hear the smile in her voice.

“Take as long as you want,” he says magnanimously.

“OK.  Well, I’m going tell you about my best friend.  He’s called the Doctor, and he’s a Time Lord.  He travels through Space and Time in his TARDIS…”

* * *

The Pittsburgh laboratory is small, ill equipped, and underfunded.

They really don’t expect him to make much of himself.

Suddenly, a young man in a tweed jacket and bow tie bursts in.

“Amy!” he’s shouting.  “Amy!”

He turns, frowning.

“There’s no Amy here.”

“Must’ve missed her, then.”

“No.  There was never anyone named Amy here.”

The young man stares.

Finally: “I’m the Doctor.”

The man laughs. 

“Yeah, I’m a doctor too.”

“Yes.  I know.”

“Amy isn’t here.  Whoever she is.”  He turns away.  “And now, I have to get to work.”

The Doctor nods.

“Yes, absolutely.  You must get on with it.”

He backs out of the room and leaves Jonas Salk to his studies.

* * *

Barry sits at the table, sipping his water and watching Amy tidy up and put away the remains of their latest bagel feast.

“So, is it to be bagels from now on?” she wonders.

Barry shrugs. 

“There’s the gefilte fish,” he reminds her.

“Right,” she agrees, eyeing the unopened jar that’s still sitting on the counter.  “In case of emergency, break glass.”

He snorts. 

“That’d have to be some fucking emergency.”

“A gefilte emergency!”

“I don’t even wanna think about what that might be like,” he says.

She puts the container of cream cheese in the fridge.

“You know, you _could_ help,” she says.

“I _could_ ,” he agrees, and she turns around and sticks her tongue out at him.

For some reason, this strikes them both as hilarious.

 _We’re losing it_ , she thinks, even as she’s laughing hysterically. _It’s not been forty-eight hours yet, and we’re already going bonkers!_

She wonders for the trillionth time where the Doctor is.

They don’t even hear Mayflower enter the kitchen.

“What’s so funny?” he asks suspiciously, and Amy and Barry try to pull it together.

“Nothing,” Amy says when she’s finally able to speak without giggling.  “Private joke.”

“Gefilte fish,” she hears Barry whisper, and she has to bite the inside of her lip until it bleeds to keep from dissolving into laughter again.  _Don’t look at him don’t look at him don’t look at him…_

“You two better step it up tonight,” Mayflower is telling them.  He glares at Amy. “And no more slapping the customers!”

“He had _three hands_!” she reminds him heatedly.

“I don’t care.  It’s bad for business.”  He turns to Barry, pointing.  “And _you_.  If the ladies want to buy you drinks, you let them.”

“Yeah, see, here’s the thing: I don’t play too good when I’m drunk.”

“That purple one with all the tentacles wanted to do more than buy you drinks!” Amy reminds him, and he shudders.

“And she was all slimy, too!”

“She was a _paying customer_ ,” Mayflower says angrily.  “Am I the only one who cares about Club Mayflower?”

“Yes!” Barry and Amy say in unison.

“Now listen, I paid a lot for a huge advertising package, so I’m expecting a lot of customers tonight.  And you two morons better not mess it up!”

Amy and Barry exchange a look: _Advertising package?_

“Whattaya mean, advertising package?” Barry asks.

“I put ads everywhere,” Mayflower says. “All across the main spaceways, all over the major ports of call, on all of the entertainment services… _everywhere_.  By now, there’s not a single sentient being in the entire galaxy who doesn’t know that you two are here at the Mayflower!”

* * *

The Doctor pays for his ice cream cone and goes over to sit on a park bench.

There’s a man sitting on the bench and he eyes the Doctor momentarily, and then goes back to his newspaper.

“I’m looking for someone,” the Doctor announces, and the man grunts noncommittally.  “Where do you suppose I should start?”

“Don’t know, and don’t care,” the man says without looking up from his newspaper.

“I think the TARDIS has lost the trail,” the Doctor muses.  “Either that, or the temporal stabilizers are playing up again.”  He frowns.  “Yes. Must remember to look into that.”

The man gives another noncommittal grunt.

The Doctor licks his ice cream cone: Chocolate.

“I’m still trying to decide if I like chocolate,” he says.  “Fairly new mouth, you know. Still breaking it in.”

The man doesn’t respond in any way.

“When someone goes missing, they can’t just disappear forever, can they?  I mean, there’d have to be some sort of _record_ of where they’d gone…” his voice trails off as he thinks. “Yes!  Yes, I’ve got it!”

He jumps to his feet.

“Thank you so much, you’ve been an enormous help!” he says enthusiastically.  He grabs the man’s hand and shakes it.  “I’m the Doctor, by the way.”

The man glares up at him.

“Jimmy Hoffa,” he says, and goes back to his paper.

* * *

Barry is practically dragging Amy into the apartment.

“Shower.  _Now!_ ”

“All right, all right,” she grumbles. “At least let me get these bloody shoes off!”

Once they’re situated in the shower, he whispers in her ear: “What.  The. _Fuck_?”

“Barry – ”

“How can you be _pregnant_? Was it that Doctor guy?”

“What?  No! Don’t be daft!”

“Well, I know damn well it wasn’t _me_!” 

“You _do_ realize that we’re not _actually_ married, right?”

“But how did – ”

“ _I’m_ _not pregnant_ , you idiot!”

“You’re… not?  But you told Mayflower – ”

“Well, I had to tell him _something_ , didn’t I?” she whispers back.  “He wanted me to sit on that guy’s lap and drink martinis!”

“And that was the best you could come up with?”

“Oh, sod off!”

“You know, sooner or later he’s gonna notice that you’re not really pregnant.”

She looks up at him and smiles that brilliant smile.

“Well, we’ll just have to figure something out, won’t we?”

He grins saucily and pulls her even closer. “You know, I have an idea…”

* * *

The Doctor stands at the TARDIS control console.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” he mutters.  He pulls a lever, and the Time Rotor begins moving.

“GERONIMO!” he yells gleefully as the TARDIS tumbles into the Time Vortex.

* * *

Barry is at the piano, pounding out “Copacabana” for the third time this evening.

“Her name is Lola, she was a showgirl,” he sings, all the while thinking, _Just shoot me. Just shoot me_ now _._

The roar of materialization is deafening.

He stops singing and playing and just _stares_ as a blue police box with a flashing white light on top fades into existence.

The door opens, and a young man in a tweed jacket and red bow tie steps out.

“Hello, I’m the Doctor,” he announces to the now-silent crowd.  “Perhaps you’ve heard of me? Last of the Time Lords, the Oncoming Storm, the Lonely God?”  He sees that the crowd is growing uneasy, and he nods once.  “Ah, yes.  You _have_ heard of me. Good.  That’ll make this _much_ easier.”  He puts his hands in his trouser pockets and rocks back on his heels.  “[Basically… _run_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aYaQVjF48eY).”

There’s a long moment of silence, and then it’s utter pandemonium.

* * *

Amy is standing at the kitchen counter getting a glass of water when she hears the door to the apartment open.

Mayflower comes bursting in.  Without saying a word, he grabs her arm.

“Come on,” he says.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.  I need a hostage!”

 _Why would he need a hostage?_ she wonders, and then it hits her.

“The Doctor’s here, isn’t he?” she asks excitedly.

“Come on!” he repeats, and begins to drag her out.

“Oh no, I don’t think so!”  She picks up the jar of gefilte fish with her free hand. “In case of emergency, break glass!” she says, and smashes it over his head.

* * *

As the Doctor and Barry dash into the apartment, they hear the sound of something breaking.

When they reach the kitchen, they see that Mayflower is out cold on the floor.  There’s broken glass everywhere, and he’s lying in a small puddle of gefilte fish.

“Amy!” the Doctor yells.

“Doctor,” she says quietly.

She drops the remainder of the glass jar on the floor and turns to face him, and that’s when he sees her swollen belly.

She’s at least seven months gone, he estimates.

Maybe more.

And she’s glaring daggers at him.

“ _Where the bloody hell have you been?_ ”

* * *

They’re in the console room, watching the Doctor pace back and forth.

He’s wringing his hands and muttering something under his breath.

Amy leans up and whispers something in Barry’s ear, and he grins.

“Oooo, look at him, the puir wee lad,” Barry says in a fairly credible Scottish accent, and the Doctor’s head jerks up.

Amy shrugs. 

“Ahhh, whattaya gonna do, right?” Her Brooklyn accent isn’t quite as good as Barry’s Scottish one, but it’ll do.

“What… how… who… this… I… you… when… it…”

Amy has never seen the Doctor at a complete loss for words before, and she decides that it’s an amazing thing to behold.

“ _How_ long were you looking for us, Doctor?” she asks him sweetly.

“I looked!” he says, stabbing a finger in the air for emphasis.  “I looked hard! I looked really, _really_ hard!”

“Um hmm,” she says, and folds her arms across her chest.

“Must not’ve looked _that_ hard,” Barry says, “since Mayflower was advertising our act all over the fucking place!”

The Doctor winces. 

“Yeah, about that… I’m… I’m really not sure how I missed that.  Must have gotten distracted somehow.”  He frowns. “Not sure how that happened.”

He goes back to pacing and wringing his hands and muttering.

Amy caresses her belly.  “If it’s a girl, I think we should name it Melody,” she tells Barry.  “[Melody Pond](http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/River_Song).”

“Pond?” he questions.

She shrugs.  “Well, it’s not as though we’re _really_ married, is it?”

“Nope.”

“ _Aaaaand…_ ” she continues, lifting her shirt to reveal the pillow underneath. “It’s not as though I’m actually pregnant, either.”

The Doctor stops pacing and just _gapes_ at them.

She tosses the pillow down on the floor and glares at him.

“That’s what you get, Doctor!” she says, and then begins to giggle.  “Oh, the look on his face!” she says to Barry.

“Yeah, that was pretty good,” he agrees.

“Pond – ” the Doctor begins, and now she’s glaring at him again.

“Eight months!” she says heatedly. “ _Eight months_ , Doctor!  I kept track!”

“She did,” Barry agrees.

“Eight months of bagels and cream cheese!”

“You did ask for fruit and vegetables that one time,” Barry reminds her.

“Yeah,” she agrees.  “Yeah, I did.”

“And…?” the Doctor wonders.

 “The Night of The [Durian](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Durian) will forever live in infamy,” Barry says, absolutely deadpan.

“Eeeewww!” the Doctor says, making a face.

“Yes, Doctor, The Night of The Durian! Oh, and while we’re at it, we mustn’t forget Nicotine Withdrawal Hell.”  She glares at Barry.  “ _That_ was fun.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“No, it _wasn’t_ ,” she agrees.  “If I _ever_ hear that you’ve begun smoking again after _all that_ , I will find you and kill you with my bare hands.”

“And she _will_ , too,” the Doctor warns him.

“Yeah, I believe it!”

“And then there was The Matzoh-pocalypse,” Amy says. “Remember that?”

“Oh yeah!  Oh, and The Brisket Basket!”

“How To Fake A Pregnancy In Ten Easy Steps!”

“The Lox Locks,” Barry offers, and the Doctor frowns, trying to work _that one_ out. “And The Gefilte Emergency.”

“In case of emergency, break glass,” Amy reminds him, and they both dissolve into laughter.

“O… kay,” the Doctor finally says. “I’m guessing you want to go back to Earth now?”

“Eventually,” Amy says, and finally smiles at him. “I suppose there’s no real rush. This is a time machine, after all.”

Barry thinks for a minute, frowning.

“Could we maybe make a stop somewhere?” he asks, and grins wickedly.

* * *

Billy Joel is sitting at the plastic table in a plastic chair, spreading cream cheese on his bagel with a plastic knife.

 _That Mayflower guy is some kind of first class whacko_ , he thinks.  _And how the hell am I ever going to get out of this place?_

By his own estimation he’s been here about six months now, and he’s still no closer to formulating any kind of workable escape plan.

He sighs and takes a bite of his bagel.

With a flashing light and a strange wheezing, groaning sound, a blue wooden phone booth just _appears_.

Right there.

Right in front of him.

Out of nowhere.

He stares at it, astonished.

The door opens, and he hears a voice – a vaguely familiar, Brooklyn-accented voice – from inside asking, “What’s the line again?”

There’s a faint reply, and Billy gets the impression of an English accent.  He can hear a woman laughing.

And then – of all the damn crazy things! – Barry Manilow steps out of the blue phone booth and grins at him.

He’s holding something up in his right hand: Some kind of silver wand thing with a glowing green tip.

“When I say run, _run_!”

FINIS.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _[Here At The Mayflower](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Here_at_the_Mayflower)_!
> 
> [Like a demented flamenco dancer on acid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9WsBKqia1-A&noredirect=1)!


End file.
